


Trouble

by transtwinyards



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Post-The Dream Thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transtwinyards/pseuds/transtwinyards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crackle of flames filled the air, suddenly jolting Ronan out of his thoughts. The bass had stopped, but when? Kavinsky settled on the hood of his Mitsubishi, looking at Ronan through sunglasses.</p><p>“You’re wearing sunglasses at night,” Ronan replied instead.</p><p>Kavinsky grinned at this. “And <em>you’re</em> not wearing anything.” Ronan shrugged, which meant that he was very aware of that fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Another character study, because I still don't have a full understanding of their characters.

When trouble found Ronan Lynch, it was usually in the form of a boy in a white Mitsubishi, wearing a white tank and expensive white-framed sunglasses, his white teeth flashing as he called Ronan an exhilarating flow of curses, that sounded oddly like inside jokes instead of biting insults.

When trouble found Ronan Lynch, it was underneath the stoplight during restless nights not spent with a sleeping Gansey; it was in the last stall in the restroom near his Latin lecture hall; it was in the abandoned lot of the state fair that closed down barely two years ago.

On the streets, Ronan’s only indication of trouble was the booming bass of speakers, which resonated with Ronan’s heartbeat and vibrated up from the ground and into his seat. It set off all of his warning lights and put his senses to the edge. It was time for a race and intricate strings of curses thrown into the cold air; it was time for burning rubber on asphalt, or for off-handed gifts with questionable sources; it was time for danger, to not think about dreams or dream objects.

When trouble found Ronan Lynch, it was in the form of Joseph Kavinsky, who ran the speed limit with the meter going as high as he was and as fast as the beat of his bass, and it found Ronan before he ever thought of looking for it, as if the mere thought of trouble summoned him.

A week into August, trouble found Ronan in a dream.

He hadn’t planned on going to sleep. In the area between falling asleep and being asleep, he can hear the tinny sound of his music, muffled by distance and something like cotton. His door was wide open, letting in the air-conditioning from the main room. The lights were left on.

The dream, like many of his dreams, started on the driver’s seat of his BMW. And like some of his dreams, Adam Parrish was seated on the seat beside him, looking tired and restless.

They were heading to the Barns, cruising down the winding paths leading to the property. Since he gained legal access to his childhood home in real life, he was expecting the dream to end when he stepped into his house, possibly with Adam, possibly without.

But instead of getting there, he was ripped out of the seat, and up, up, up above the hills of Singer’s Falls.  He had a bird’s eye view of the BMW driving towards the Barns, before the scenery shifted.

The lazy gray afternoon sky melted into shadows, and slowly but surely, Ronan felt the familiarity of it, the darkness settling from the glow of a stoplight. The dream shifted into a memory. White Mitsubishis lay around the area, some on fire, some very much intact.

The scene wasn’t crowded like it was that Fourth of July. The memory went back to being a dream, but stayed on the venue.

With dreams being impossible as they always were, there was suddenly another white Mitsubishi in front of him. He noticed that the tint was darker than most of the white Mitsubishis around him. That detail made Ronan want to kick something, and he didn’t even know why until he saw what was inside.

He felt the bass before he heard it, and it felt like his mind was just adding more and more details to the scene. Ronan felt more and more anxious that he might bring something back from this. The door opened, flashing half the decal of a knife.

And just like that, trouble found Ronan.

“Lynch,” Kavinsky said in lieu of a greeting, which was usually an unnecessary swear word. Ronan felt like he should hide from this Kavinsky, this was the exact Kavinsky who’d asked if he liked boys, the same Kavinsky that Ronan had seen last.

Except, this wasn’t Kavinsky, he reminded himself. _Joseph Kavinsky is dead_.

 _Dying’s a boring side-effect_.

The crackle of flames filled the air, suddenly jolting Ronan out of his thoughts. The bass had stopped, but when? Kavinsky settled on the hood of his Mitsubishi, looking at Ronan through sunglasses.

“You’re wearing sunglasses at night,” Ronan replied instead.

Kavinsky grinned at this. “And _you’re_ not wearing anything.” Ronan shrugged, which meant that he was very aware of that fact. He did, in fact, fall asleep in just his boxers.

Ronan felt the asphalt underneath his bare feet, felt a silent thrill come up with that. He stepped forward and sat down next to Kavinsky on the hood of the car.

Like everything else in this dream that kept popping up, Kavinsky blew smoke into the air from the joint between his fingers. Ronan took careful notice of the bruises on the other’s knuckles, identical to the ones on his own.

“Life been treating you well since…?” Kavinsky trailed off, giving Ronan a sidelong glance. There was blood dripping down his mouth. _Since I died_ was the statement he cut off. Ronan was well aware that he shouldn’t even be having a conversation with this Kavinsky, feeling like this was some kind of cheap knockoff to the real one, like he was disrespecting the memory of Kavinsky’s death.

Kavinsky had burned out until his final moment, and Ronan thought that he’s never seen something more tragically ironic.

“It’s still life. Life’s always shit. I just push my way through,” he found himself saying. He didn’t look at Kavinsky, just pulled at the leather bands on his wrist. He was hyperaware that his knee was pressed up to Kavinsky’s and that it felt colder than it should have. He let it stay where it lay, knowing that he wouldn’t have enough hold to pull Kavinsky back with him.

Really, he shouldn’t have to explain anything to this apparition, because these were things his brain constructed in the wild recesses of his mind. He should wake up.

“You should,” Kavinsky replied.

And so, Ronan did.

He woke up, slouched on his desk, blanket by his shoulders, door ajar. Gansey stood by the door.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Gansey said. “It’s just that, you seemed cold, is all.

Ronan grunted, pawing off his headphones. “You didn’t. Wake me up, I mean.”

Gansey nodded, one of his hands on the doorway, the other by his lips. Ronan tugged at the blanket by his shoulders and nodded back.

“What did you dream about?” Gansey asked, because he was Gansey and he always was always curious about things he couldn’t decipher. Ronan prided himself to be open and honest but for some reason, Gansey couldn’t read him at that moment.

“Trouble,” Ronan said.


End file.
